


A Series of Unsystematic Purchases

by celestially_potatoish29



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - College/University, Atsumu just wants love and Sakusa just wants to get better, Bad Flirting, Developing Relationship, Emotional Constipation, Flirting, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Light Angst, M/M, Romantic Comedy, Slow Burn, but more comfort than hurt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 04:34:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26347186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestially_potatoish29/pseuds/celestially_potatoish29
Summary: Miya Atsumu has a few weaknesses: summer weather, silence, and that one really hot customer that frequents his family's bookstore. And the said hot customer just so happens to have a terribly unsystematic taste in manga.OR: A romantic-comedy with a splash of not-comedy depicts the time when Atsumu's big mouth launches him into this enigma of a customer's life, and learns why his manga purchases aren't so unsystematic after all.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi, background OsaSuna
Comments: 9
Kudos: 79





	1. A lil bit of heat with a side of death

**Author's Note:**

> This is my attempt at a Romantic Comedy because fuck I’m tired from writing angst.  
> I’mma prepare myself some Sakuatsu food and eat it up cause I’m self-indulgent like that.

Atsumu always had a penchant for the heart of summer. Sweat-licked skin, winter-ice popsicles, and school-less days filled with inexhaustible boredom are what had Atsumu jumping on the balls of his feet as a kid whenever July rolled around.

He had never minded the heat as if he was one with the sun itself, letting sweat perspire in gross, sticky suds from the nooks and crannies of his body like an over-absorbed sponge. He was the epitome of heat-resistant without half the mind to care about how UV rays would sear tanned colors onto his skin. The sun was always easy on him, and the heat that came with was always pleasant regardless of temperature.

That is until Atsumu graduated high school and became humanity's most dreaded being that not even the gods can lay mercy upon: a college student.

Now summer is nothing but a fuel to Atsumu's bonfire of stress that rages in his mind, extinguishing his love for the season and especially the weather. The sweltering heat mercilessly melts him like ice, and Atsumu becomes a puddle in his own sweat where the remnants of his heat tolerance are close to non-existent. It isn't of any help that their family bookstore temporarily has no AC after it broke down a few days prior. Now Atsumu is practically fusing into his LSAT practice workbook like wax. If someone offered to trap him in a freezer till he dies, Atsumu would put up _zero_ fight against that favor.

A foot nudges at Atsumu's ankle, and he makes a hot-breathed groan of acknowledgement into his arm.

"Oh, darn," he hears Osamu deadpan from beside from him. "Thought maybe I could be one step closer to being an only child for once with you dead from the heat."

Osamu had always despised the heat as a kid, his skin always subject to burning instead of tanning. But he seems to have swapped heat tolerances with Atsumu when they got older, as he now no longer minds the summer weather as long as he coats himself in sunscreen (reapplied every three hours tops or else his skin will grow red-raw like a newborn straight out of the womb). Him standing unfazed beside Atsumu in scalding 37-degrees Celsius with a half-eaten onigiri in one hand is a showy example of this fact. It prompts Atsumu to wish he could sock Osamu in the gut just for being at peace with the sun gods.

"Samu..." Atsumu wheezes, wishing his pathetic huffs of air aren't as noticeable as they are to his own ears. His arm lifts with a disturbing stickiness that he has to detach from the counter, and his hand begins groping for his brother in an SOS. "If I die here, tell Mom 'n Dad good luck with payin' for my student debt."

A stumbling silence ensues, then a splash of cold water slaps Atsumu in the face in an instant as he jerks up with both a curse and a prayer expressed through the hiss he emits. A cold sensation seeps into his skin to provide him a brief moment of relief, only for it to be sucked dry in just mere seconds from humidity.

"The only way you're dyin' is when I personally kill you _after_ you've fully paid off your dumb law school that you're probably not even going to pass," says Osamu with a bitter promise weaved in his words. He takes a drink from the cold bottle of water he had just used to splash Atsumu with.

"You're a dick," grumbles Atsumu with his bitterness on par with his twin's. "Your business school ain't a cheap one either."

"At least my chances of graduating in comparison to yours is as different as night and day."

"Yeah, and it ain't any mystery who the one graduating is going to be," smirks Atsumu, sitting up pompously with his pride riding on his back— along with countless layers of clammy sweat. "Cause I've got law school _in the bag_."

"In the bag... _'in the bag'_ he says..." mocks Osamu with an askance click of his tongue, leaning over to look at the workbook strewn out in front of Atsumu. "Yeah, how's page 42 out of... how many was it? Right, how is page 42 out of 378 going for you?" A complacent snicker sounds from his aslant grin. "And remind me again when your LSAT is? Because that's quite the small 'bag' you got there."

Now Atsumu squints contemptuously at Osamu as if he can will him out of existence. "Samu, I'mma throttle ya into the family grave. Consider it done."

Osamu doesn't humor Atsumu with a reaction, leaving the latter insatiate with a frown.

"You're not even in law school yet. In fact, _you haven't even taken the LSAT yet_ ," says Osamu with the second sentence punctuated by his finger that taps at the workbook tauntingly. "You're gon' live in mom n' dad's basement like the nasty bastards in those eroticas on Aisle 9."

The strong desire to disown himself from being Osamu's twin entertains Atsumu's mind, and he resorts to swatting his brother's hand away before going in to insistently jab at his rib with as much ninja speed he can summon upon sheer will. But Osamu dodges it swiftly as he raises the mouth of his water bottle to his own with a subdued look of victory patched onto his features.

When a customer enters the shop with a small jingle of the door, they freeze in a way that's akin to children being caught in the act of doing something rebellious, only for the customer to scowl at the shop and head immediately back out.

"Well would'ja look at that," Atsumu chuckles mirthlessly, even glaring at the door with his annoyance not forgotten. "The heat is drivin' the customers off."

"Ya sure it's the heat?" Says Osamu with a quirked brow. "Or was it th'fact that they saw you about to lodge that pen between my ribs?"

Atsumu flings his pilot pen that lands smack on Osamu's cheek before it drops to the floor. "'M tired of bein' the scapegoat. Of course it's th'damn hellfire of heat drivin' them away!" Atsumu exclaims with a bite of spite. "Or maybe it's jus' th'smell of your sunscreen— or cooling gel—or whatever, how much fuckin' aloe do ya use?? It reeks so bad that I bet great-gramps can smell it from his grave six-feet below the dirt."

"First of all, your idiocy makes ya out t'be the _perfect_ scapegoat—" Osamu deflects another pen from hitting his face with a single hand, "—second, _great_ -gramps is _cremated_ ya disrespectful prick. Ya know nothin' bout filial piety." Another pen deflected. "And _third_ which is actually related to th' _first_ , no ones gonna question nothin' when they think it's _you_ who's committed the dumbassery." And another pen is deflected before Osamu flips the bird straight in Atsumu's face.

"Ya fuckin' cheap shot—" grumbles Atsumu as he jabs his mechanical pencil in Osamu's direction with accusation. "Ya even stole my heat immunity, bastard." Then he flings the pencil at him too.

This time, Osamu catches it in his palm and tosses it between his hands. "Just like th'many shit that you stole from _me_ when we were kids."

Osamu rears back, and Atsumu feels his body panic before his mind can even fully process the (probably minimally damaging) danger he's about to face. Curling further into his chair, Atsumu raises his arms to his face as the pencil flies at full force towards him like a shooting star, with the only wish that Atsumu makes from it being that the pencil doesn't stab his eyes out of its sockets.

The impact is sharp when it lands, but not as dramatic as Atsumu needlessly anticipated. Except the prickly throb at the top of his head radiates sheer irritation rather than pain.

"You shoulda seen your face! Oh my _god_ —" Osamu wheezes into the counter as his body comically crinkles against it with laughter.

You know what, fuck law school. Atsumu grabs his workbook and prepares to launch it at the cackling Osamu with as much brotherly hate he can muster.

"I'll make ya eat your rights that ya definitely don't deserve anymore," spits Atsumu, taking aim.

He prepares to strike the cocky smile off of Osamu's face with his LSAT workbook that is flipped to the page about the Constitution of Japan, when the bell of the shop door tweets a melodic jingle.

With instincts built from working at the shop since the moment they could read and write, a cursory scramble ensues before the pair immediately jump into feigning normality. Atsumu drops himself back onto his chair and pretends to read from his textbook that he was previously wielding as a death weapon, while Osamu straightens up and acts as if he is examining a particularly interesting smudge on the counter.

The door shuts rather aggressively, and they whip their heads to the door to see Suna standing there with an absolute _scowl_ dressing his face. Homicidal intent radiates like melting heat off of his features, and the black plastic bag beside him is gripped with the same intensity as someone who just caught their dog's murderer by the throat. Only an idiot wouldn't be able to see that Suna is only one degree below from strangling the sun with his own two hands.

"Long walk?" Remarks Atsumu with as much caustic jest his obnoxious self can produce through a sneaky smirk.

Those olive, fox-like eyes of Suna's promise Atsumu an early grave when they flicker a glare at him.

"Do you know how many streets I had to cross to find the nearest konbini??" Suna growls tightly through clenched teeth.

"I can take a jab at it—"

" _Too many_ , I say. _Too many_ for this _god-forsaken_ weather." Suna immediately interrupts bitterly before Atsumu can pitch in with another dumb quip. "You guys owe me a damn raise." The plastic bag is shoved in Osamu's hands, and he stumbles back at the force. Suna practically deflates when he leans against the counter across from the brothers.

A dark chuckle flits out of Osamu's grin. "Well _you_ look like you're in your element."

The irony of his remark hits hard when they look at Suna's brown locks that are now wilted with sweat, and his cheeks that are splashed pink from the relentless heat. His skin looks to have lost a healthy luster and is now painted with splotches of blushing red— probably the pre-stage of sunburn. Suna's skin has always been inanely sensitive.

"I'll wipe that grin off your stupid face with my own sweat," Suna huffs grimly. "I've got plenty to work with." He extends a sweat-slick palm that both Osamu and Atsumu lean away from in disgust.

As Osamu begins to gently rifle through the contents of the plastic bag, Suna cuts in with, "The ice cream melted on the way."

"Melted ice cream ain't bad." Atsumu shrugs.

Suna narrows his eyes at Atsumu as if he is something he can't quite see clearly— or understand for that matter. "Unless it's lukewarm."

The twist of disapproval on Atsumu's face dignifies Osamu's next suggestion, "I'll just take these t'the back freezer." And no one protests. No matter how insufferably hot it is, the thought of slurping lukewarm, mango sorbet like it's evening soup does not sound the slightest bit appealing to anyone.

While Osamu disappears into the staff room, Suna walks around the counter and hoists himself up on the glass surface.

"It's a pretty still day," Suna remarks to particularly no one— not even Atsumu who sits in the chair right beside him. "No customers."

"Yeah, th'lack of AC is steerin' 'em off like rat poison," sighs Atsumu, who leans over his workbook once again with not a single drop of focus dripping onto the pages. His hand smooths out the crinkles that he had (violently) folded onto the pages moments earlier.

Leaning back, Suna sighs at the ceiling. "I can't blame them when even death seems sweeter than _this_."

" _Amen_." Atsumu agrees witheringly. He thinks if someone told him he was actually sitting in the asscrack of hell, he wouldn't be surprised.

Atsumu hears Osamu come back in, but no conversation is engaged as if the two weren't just about to go at each other's neck a few minutes ago. Suna stares at the wall, Atsumu listlessly looks at his workbook, and Osamu has gone somewhere in the back of the shop again to retrieve something. Silence is usual in a bookstore, but it's especially noticeable when customers aren't there to accompany it.

With focus failing him, Atsumu's eyes have already drifted from his workbook and nailed onto the wall opposite of him. Bookshelves stare back, extending far throughout the wide but not quite large space of the Miya-owned bookstore.

It takes a quick, "Tsumu, mom jus' called" for Atsumu to abandon his spot by the counter and go to the staff lounge to take the landline— yes, landline, the whole wall-mounted schmeal deal— and speak to his mother for a few minutes before going back to return where he came from.

"Mom said th'repairman's comin' tomorrow to fix the AC." Atsumu announces when he exits out the curtain that separates the hall and the shop.

Only Suna is nearby to hear, but he merely replies with, "Osamu just told me."

"Of course he did..." sighs Atsumu as he leans against the wall, looking around the store with an eye that looks like he can't decide if he loves or resents what he sees. "Y'know, mom could really try renovatin' the place while she's at it."

"Your mom has a little...." says Suna flatly as he gestures with his hand in a search for words. ".... _thing_ about sentimentality."

Atsumu snorts, "Thanks for not sayin' _'crazy attachment issues'_ ," before receiving a haphazard thumbs up from Suna.

He knows his mother is completely left-field when it comes to being sentimental about inanimate objects of all things. Plants? Yeah, Atsumu might understand, and maybe a childhood toy or two. But the lady that's his mother goes the extra three miles by demanding that they keep everything from the shop's location to the slightest stains on wall the same as it has always been.

Therefore it's unsurprising to say that the walls are old, not rotting, but definitely _old_. Old, as in it looks like granny's collection of floral wallpaper samples were puked and slapped on in hues of tinted periwinkle. The ceilings are made of plaster that have been endlessly coated with even more plaster over the years to prevent collapse. The floors are carpeted, but not of the pleasant kind. Its navy color is rough, as rough as the actual feeling of it as it's the perfect recipe for rug burn at even the slightest of scrapes.

But the shop is of the quaint kind, located at the edge of Tokyo and is favored by the same type of people who thoroughly enjoy thrifting, Doc Martens, and sappy quotes on Pinterest. Despite the bones of the shop wearing away with time and age, it's also fortified by memories and familial prosperity. Perhaps Atsumu doesn't quite blame his mother for being so sentimental when he himself feels a piece of himself melded into the foundation.

"Tsumu! I think th'toilet's clogged!" From the very opposite corner of the shop, Osamu's voice calls out. "Get th'plunger, wouldja?"

Grumbling, Atsumu is quickly reminded that his nostalgic memories of the shop are nothing but a layer beneath the actual weary state of the building. He shoots Suna a look, and the brunette returns a shooing gesture from his seat by the counter.

"He called for _you_. Now go," urges Suna as he goes back to idly scrolling through his phone.

Another grumble, and Atsumu turns to fetch the plunger out of the storage closet down the hall.

Suna is a little shit, and Atsumu chants it to himself like a mantra that doesn't go unsaid at least once every day. The frown cresting between Atsumu's brows are so intense that his mother's voice echoes in his head about how it's going to leave him wrinkles.

"Tsumu!" Osamu calls impatiently for the second time.

"I hear ya! I hear ya!" Atsumu emerges with the plunger in hand. "What'd ya do, take a massive shit??"

"If I did, it'd just be your face in here!"

When Atsumu reaches the bathroom, he then chucks the plunger in Osamu's face in a violent lieu of offering help.

—

They ended up having to call the plumber as well.

That bathroom also happens to be the _only_ bathroom in the shop— gender neutral. Now if someone needs to take care of their _business_ , they have to walk to the Ojiro’s Auto Shop down the street and ask to use one of their bathrooms.

Another thing about the auto shop is that they have a functioning AC, so Osamu and Suna left to 'use the bathroom' and haven't been back for half an hour. At first, a pint of now-frozen mango sorbet sufficed in keeping Atsumu cool, but when half an hour turns to an hour, Atsumu's feels his tongue grow numb with frost while the rest of his body remains a greenhouse.

He is about another two minutes away from spamming Osamu's phone with obnoxious texts, then calls, then voicemails in that order because, call it a twin's intuition, Atsumu already predicts that Osamu will ignore all three regardless. Or maybe Osamu's just a predictable and shitty brother.

Yeah, Osamu is just a predictable and shitty brother. That thought shoots more comfort in Atsumu than the spoonfuls of sorbet does to his overheating, clammy body.

It's not like Atsumu can leave the shop unattended and indulge himself in the auto shop's AC like how Osamu and Suna are probably doing. He's just— stuck. Hot, uncomfortable, and left alone to suffer in his own presence. He's never hated being in his body so much until now.

Atsumu turns the page of his LSAT workbook with a sharp flick. He's another fifteen pages in now, fully-annotated all the way to the margins, and yet his brain still doesn't feel another percent confident in his LSAT that is supposed to take place in the fall. Restlessness bobs his knee up and down, growing anxious in the insufferable silence that comes with utter solitude— something that Atsumu has never quite gotten used to. Having a twin by his side since the moment he was conceived made sure of that.

The bell at the door chimes, slicing through the dense quiet. The noise has Atsumu catapulting up from his chair with anticipation, the action resulting in making his textbook thump against the counter and his numerous pens and highlighters to scatter across the gross, rough, navy carpet.

But that's the last thing Atsumu cares about as he immediately begins bitching straight through his teeth, "'Bout fuckin' time you're back—"

Oh.

Atsumu pauses when he sees that his stupid-faced brother and Suna aren't the ones on the receiving end of his bluster.

It's a customer. Tall, dark hair, and onyx eyes that hold a steely glare. His skin is light and pale like polished china, and it's as if not a single touch of sunlight has ever graced across his face in his life. High cheekbones, framed by tight, fraying curls give him the appearance of a doll somehow.

 _Oh_.

Then Atsumu's eyes trail down and see that the customer is wearing a long coat, turtleneck, slacks, and loafers— _all black_ and covering _every scape of skin other than his face._

 _O h_. This time with utter confusion.

Atsumu has always been one to go by _'don't judge a book by its cover_ ', but that goes straight out the window when he conclusively decides that this tall, dark-haired, handsome— _fuck_ — tall, dark-haired, looks-like-he-just walked-out-the-set-of-'Lucifer' customer is indeed, a psychopath, merely for his outfit of choice in this weather that was cursed by the gods themselves. His dry, ice-cutting stare is one thing that heavily attests to Atsumu's theory, and uncomfortable heat blooms on Atsumu's back just at the sight of the customer's rather _snug_ clothing in this overheating weather.

"Uh— my bad," stammers Atsumu as he lightly bows his head at the customer in a haphazard apology.

It seems as if not a single sap of warmth is present in the guy, because his glare grows pointed into a cold scowl that is far too much like Suna's when he's plotting a gruesome murder against Atsumu. And that makes Atsumu have to resist the urge to retort like it's some sort of instinct to do so.

After a too-long beat of silence, Atsumu clears this throat awkwardly, "I said my bad, dude. Thought ya were my bastard of a brother."

The dark-haired guy finally blinks curtly in acknowledgement— fucking _blinks_ as if that's supposed to an adequate greeting— and continues to walk past the counter with hands sliding into his coat pockets. Atsumu cringes at the sight as phantom sweat gathers in his palms.

Before the customer can walk too far, Atsumu calls out to him, "Heya, anythin' specific ya lookin' for?" The customer stops. "T'sa slow day. Been kinda antsy."

Slowly turning back, coal-black eyes as deep as molten rock pin a prickly glare on Atsumu through a curtain of curly midnight locks. But the lazy grin carved on Atsumu's lips don't startle or quiver, maintaining his rather nonchalant attitude despite feeling like he's gonna pass out from how hot it is in here.

No verbal response is given, but the customer turning his back on Atsumu is enough to stand as a response: acute denial, the cold shoulder, utter rejection as if Atsumu, a stranger, just declared his Shakespearean love for him from across the counter.

"Bad day?" Atsumu comments on the indifference, and that successfully earns the guy's eyes again. "And aren'cha sweatin' in that thing?" He makes a perfunctory gesture at the guy's clothes.

The guy merely looks down at himself without turning his head. He looks almost regal in Atsumu's eyes, elegant or perhaps he's just stuck-up. Regardless of the adjective, Atsumu knows he's always had ambitious taste in both men and women alike, therefore he isn't discouraged by the aloofness.

One, two, then three beats of pondering silence from the guy. Then he takes an audible breath that's quiet enough to almost miss.

"Show me the manga section," he requests, or rather, orders from how dry his tone is.

A wider smile splits slyly on Atsumu's face. "Sure thing." The words slip smoothly out his lips as he makes his way around the counter to lead the customer down the shop.

It's when they're halfway down their path to the manga section that Atsumu passively notes to himself that the guy looks akin to a grim reaper— and that's when his thoughts spiral. What if this guy _is_ a grim reaper coming to collect his soul? That would explain the all black, the inhumanly lack of social skills, and _oh my god_ it happens in the movies all the time, and now Atsumu is literally leading _Death_ down his family's bookstore— _wow_ — Atsumu knows he can't handle the heat but he didn't think it would be enough to cost his life—

A _thunk_ from Atsumu tripping on a chair leg followed by a passionate " _Sonuvabitch_!" from him expels the entirety of his thought process as he quickly glances over his shoulder to see if the customer is still there.

He half expects to see nobody standing behind him as evidence of his whole grim reaper train of thought but no, the guy is still there, looking at him with narrowed eyes as if he's just watched a rather disappointing children's piano recital. And now Atsumu isn't sure if he would rather have had the guy be a grim reaper instead, so it can save him the embarrassment as he hurries on down the shop where the manga corner sits.

The corner is small, but the shelves are double-backed with endless sorts of manga: shoujo, shounen, horror, isekai— name it and a bit of digging around will reveal that a series in relation to the desired genre is present. A sign reading MANGA hangs over the spot in dead giveaway, claiming at least a few meters stretching from the corner, along with a few cluster of shelves that hold a large assortment of more manga nearby.

This part of the shop is Atsumu's favorite; there's even a spot he likes to sit, where he reads and rereads a busying selection of his favorite Ito Junji or Maruo Suehiro works during the dull hours of the day.

"Here she is!" Atsumu announces with a showy gesture of his hands where the rows of dark oak shelves— new ones that his mother had to _very_ reluctantly buy— that do an imaginary bow upon being revealed.

The dark-clad customer stares dully at the shelves, his eyes strangely burdened with a weight of tiredness. At first, Atsumu wonders if he's just unimpressed.

"This is no Akihabara, but it's enough fer th'locals," reasons Atrumu, shoving his hands in his pockets before immediately fishing them back out with sweaty discomfort.

The customer doesn't bat a single eye at Atsumu, walking past him with a flat stare dragging across the shelves in both a lazy and attentive way. It's like he is looking for something, but isn't interested enough to find it despite still searching.

Silence has never been kind to Atsumu, but it's not like Atsumu has ever been kind back, and so he asks, "Ya lookin' for anythin' specific?" While leaning a shoulder against the side of the bookshelf.

"More or less," the customer speaks, and it weirdly excites Atsumu that he's dragging conversation out of him. "I don't really know what it's called." His eyes never leave the spines of the books as he speaks in that monotonous lull of a voice that will surely give Morgan Freeman a run for his money.

It even manages to give Atsumu the chills, and the last time he had the chills was when he listened to Ariana Grande's _thank u, next_ album for the first time. That album had him belting the lyrics to 'break up with your girlfriend, i'm bored' from the moment roosters would begin crowing at dawn (YOU CAN HIT IT IN THE MORNINNNNNN', YEAH YEAH, LIKE IT'S YOUUUOUUUOUUURS), only for it to come to an end when Osamu would burst in with eye bags and a pillow in hand, ready to smother Atsumu into submission.

Goes to say, this grim reaper looking customer is now a phenomenon to Atsumu, and that brings out the deepest roots of curiosity within him— so he prods.

"What're ya, dumb?" Though Atsumu's asshole-ish flirting tactics have always been distasteful to others. "Can't remember a simple title to a book you're readin'?"

A withering look is locked onto Atsumu from the customer's midnight black eyes, one of them twitching with clear irritation. Something appears to be on the tip of his tongue from the way his lips scrunch together before relaxing into an exhausted frown, and he continues to act like Atsumu is nothing but invisible air.

Watching from the side, Atsumu fans himself with the collar of his shirt. He stands there for a few more minutes, peering behind him at the window where the sky's light begins to lessen into a deep dusk as he wonders where the hell Osamu and Suna are now.

"Is there something you want from me?" notes the customer, the smooth waves of his voice making Atsumu snap his gaze back over to him.

With a phone in hand now, the customer has migrated to stand across from Atsumu with a fixed stare boring holes into his soul. The solid core of Atsumu's gut liquifies under the stare, wanting to swim in all the dark-hued oceans of the guy's hair, eyes, and even his long coat as if it's no longer supposed to be tangible if he were to reach out and touch him. That pale skin is blank, so blank that it's not unlike sheer purity, something that Atsumu finds joy in respectably tainting just a bit. And those two moles perpendicular to his eyebrows look so good that he wonders what it would be like if he just—

Atsumu clears his throat, keeping his thoughts at bay. His inherent attraction to men has begun flooding in tenfold. Blame it on the heat, but it's ridiculously dizzying.

"I just wanna be of use." Atsumu shrugs out with a tepid crack in his best attempt at a _suave_ voice. He can already hear Osamu cackling in the back of his head at the effort. "Like I said, 'ts been a slow day." He then grins coyly. "Unless there's somethin' ya want from *me."

The discontent furl of the customer's nose says otherwise, but Atsumu still indulges in the reaction.

"This," the customer shows Atsumu his phone screen, the latter peering in. "Do you have this series?"

"Yeah," Atsumu chuckles, peeling himself off the side of the shelf with an icky stickiness on his arm. "I know this place like th'back of my hand."

Atsumu proves his confident claim by showing the customer where exactly the series is on the shelf in one trip. The customer scans the row of manga, then gingerly picks out a seemingly random volume from its place. Then they're both back at the counter where Atsumu is scanning the manga with a _beep_ and takes a good look at the manga the customer had picked out.

_Orange, Vol. 5._

"This one'sa good read," comments Atsumu as he bags the item. "Good taste."

The customer doesn't comment, partly because he looks like he wants nothing else but to lock himself in a coffin and not be awakened from his slumber till the dead of winter. He reaches for the bag at the same time Atsumu extends it out to him, only for Atsumu to jerk it out of reach just before the customer can lay a hand on it. That makes Atsumu receive a dark scowl, like the guy wants to lock him in a porta potty and roll him down the rockiest parts of Mount Fuji.

"OHP— too slow," laughs Atsumu before finally giving the bag that is mildly snatched out of his hand.

The customer grumbles something unintelligible beneath his breath as he turns to saunter away. Atsumu watches his back as he exits through the shop door and hollers after him, "Come back another time!!" With an extra jingle in the already condescending curl of his voice.

Before the shop door can swing closed, it's caught and jingles open again with Osamu and Suna emerging from the outdoors. Their eyes linger on the somber-looking man— probably the same kind of look Atsumu gave him when he saw how many layers of clothing he was wearing— and look back at Atsumu quizzically, slushees in hand.

"Yikes. Doesn't _he_ look cozy," Suna states in a flat, lazy tone as he slurps on the straw of his cherry slushee. Immediately, he begins fanning himself with his shirt collar.

Osamu holds out a slushee to Atsumu— mango flavored. "Before you start bitchin', I gotchya some."

What usually is an excited glimmer that emits from Atsumu's eyes at the treat, the taste of mango sorbet that's already laden on his tastebuds nullify that reaction. Plus, his eyes are still glued to the window where the sight of the Lucifer-looking customer has already disappeared into the street.

"'Ey," Osamu prods the slushee in Atsumu's direction impatiently. "Take it or I'mma pour this on your face, ya ungrateful brat."

Slowly taking the slushee in his hands, the face Osamu makes at Atsumu's wordlessness shows that he's a hair's width away from demanding that the Atsumu look-alike imposter reveal where the fuck Atsumu is and what the fuck they did to him.

But Atsumu chuckles, watching the silent and heavily inquisitive looks that are scrunched and drilled on Osamu and Suna's expressions as if they're staring at something foreign.

"Hope he comes back," grins Atsumu, his cocky tone back in full-send. "He's a weird one."

"I know a weirder one." Suna counters. "Real asshole."

Without Atsumu even inquiring, Suna fishes out his phone and shows his screen.

"Here's what he looks like."

Atsumu's reflection from the front-faced camera stares back at him, and he raises his middle finger high at a snide-smiling Suna.

"Fuck you," sneers Atsumu, biting at his straw with a frown.

"Gross. No thanks." Suna's nose crunches with disgust, too genuine to be taken as just a jest. "I bet you can barely last three minutes."

' _Oh I'll show ya_ ' is the first, thoughtless thought that Atsumu processes before he immediately wants to catapult himself straight down into a ditch that leads all the way to Hell. He'd rather burn with satan than show Suna his dick; that's just asking Atsumu to take a low blow to his self-esteem, having _Suna_ of all people judge the worth of his dick-down power.

"I can practically hear your thoughts from over here," says Osamu with an acutely disturbed look. He shakes his head at the way Atsumu is biting his straw as he ponders those thoughts about his dick and how much he _doesn't_ want Suna to ever lay his eyes on it.

"It doesn't help that you're biting that thing like how Debby Ryan probably would in a porno." Suna remarks dully with a stifled snicker.

Disgusted but still feeling feverish from the summer heat, Atsumu takes an offended sip of his mango slushee, letting bursts of its tart flavor melt insipidly over his tastebuds.

"Wow, seriously, _fuck you guys_. And _not_ in that way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmao you have no idea how many times I laughed at my own joke. I’m so lame.
> 
> Leave a neat ol’ kudos for me if ya liked it :) comment and maybe we can scream together about anything and everything.


	2. How Atsumu becomes friends with Shinigami-kun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **For those who don’t know:** “Shinigami” is the name of the grim reaper in Japanese

"No, ma'am. I'm afraid I will not be able t'do that for ya," Atsumu breathes through clenched teeth while looking like he's on the verge of a nasty aneurism. "As I have said _three times_ already."

Walking in from the staff lounge is Osamu, with a brow raised and an expression that distinctly says _'what's up?'_ upon seeing Atsumu silently ready to throw himself over the counter like some suicidal rag doll. He's been calling on the store's new (and modern) landline for maybe a good thirteen minutes with what sounds like a middle-aged soccer mom of three on the other side. And there has still been _zero_ resolution made about her petty debacle.

 _'A fuckin' bitch, that's what's up'_ , says the eye-twitching scowl on Atsumu's face as the woman yammers on about how she needs a copy of that one Gordon Ramsay cookbook in time for her son's twenty-first birthday. If only Atsumu can encompass _his_ inner Gordon Ramsay and go _ham_ on a sea of curses that will surely earn him an ass-whooping if his mom finds out about his utter disrespect towards a customer.

So instead, he just says, " _Lady_ — my apologies, _ma'am_ , but I cannot put books on hold for ya to only borrow. This is a _bookstore_ not a public _library_."

Osamu takes a bite of his granola bar as he leans by the wall next to the curtains, watching Atsumu comically mime out how much he wants to punch something right about now. He stops when a customer walks in with a judgmental eye, making him clear his throat and shove his wielding fist into his pocket.

"I already said, ya don't need a manager!" Atsumu rakes his fingers through his hair and keeps them there. "I'm literally the _son_ of the _owner_!"

He pauses, face twisting into pure murder.

"No, _everythin'_ is not up for borrowin'. You can only _buy_ —" he pinches his fingers over the bridge of his nose. "No, I'm not interested in that _bribe_ , either. Why are ya so interested in _this_ store and _that_ cookbook? Just—"

Finally coming to the rescue, Osamu walks over to his distressed brother with a hand gesturing for the phone.

Angling the mouth of the phone towards his own, Atsumu summons both his most respectful and bitter tone as it mixes like water and oil. "I'm handin' ya over to someone else, _ma'am_."

Atsumu practically shoves the blocky phone into Osamu's hand and leans over the counter with his head hanging low. He breathes deep with even the blast of the AC not being able to quell his uprise of emotion. Meditation is probably the most effective medicine to Atsumu's emotional crisis, but too bad he's never been patient enough for such practice.

"Mhm? Yes, ma'am." Osamu deadpans into the phone in contrast to Atsumu's rather _passionate_ pitches. "I apologize, but as my brother already told ya, we don't offer those types'a services. Nor do we have that cookbook anymore."

In the midst of Atsumu's pseudo-meditation over the counter with his hands gripped on the edges, the shop door's bell twinkles with activity. Not thinking much of it, Atsumu merely grits out a forced and sugary ‘welcome’ out of his chest.

"And in fact, I could try and look in th'area for libraries that have that cookbook." Osamu sets his granola bar down and holds the phone between his ear and shoulder as he goes to type on the shop's computer. "But I may not promise you any results since it's an American cookbook after all."

The lady seems rather tame now that Osamu is on the phone with her, and that irritates Atsumu in more ways than there is to serve eggs.

As Osamu continues to chatter in a civilized manner over the phone, Atsumu decides that he's thirsty from all the frustrated exercises his throat has gone through in order to talk to that lady. Not even arguing with Osamu gets Atsumu this worked up, probably because he has to hold his tongue with customers as if he's expected to act like a reincarnation of St. Paul himself. While with Osamu, it's like they're constantly on an episode of _Drop the Mic_ , just with less rhymes and rhythm and more angry dissing if anything.

Atsumu decides to card away his frustration for later and unleash them at an untimely moment just to step all over Osamu's nerves for being a decent employee. Does Atsumu really decide to postpone his tantrums? Yes, he absolutely does. Maybe that'll give him some time to think up a few rhymes to toss in there. He'll be the season four that _Drop the Mic_ never got.

An amused smirk plays onto Atsumu's lips at the thought as he straightens up to make his way to the staff lounge for a drink of water. It's a habit of his to look around the store as he walks, wondering if every time he does he'll either be met with a sight that he hates or a sight that he loves.

In this case, he might be leaning towards the latter.

And then Atsumu's mind drops its thought on water as fast as Taylor Swift drops her boyfriends, because his focus has now been compromised after spotting a recognizable head of dark curly locks residing by the manga section. Atsumu stumbles on his own feet enough to make Osamu shoot him a confused look.

He blinks once, twice, thrice— no, he's not mistaken. Over at the manga section really is where that grim-reaper looking guy from last week is standing, staring dully at the shelf of shounen manga. This time, he's not clothed in all black and a multitude of thick layers (which weren't even that many layers but still suffocating nonetheless). Instead, he's clad in dark jeans and a plain white t-shirt from what Atsumu can see from an ample view of afar.

"Samu," calls Atsumu while firmly nailing his fist to his brother's arm, gaze unmoving. "Samu, that's him."

Osamu merely shrugs Atsumu's fist away, still clacking at the keyboard and speaking into the phone.

Osamu had thought Atsumu was way over his head (per usual) when the latter reveled about this certain customer the moment they got home from work the week before. Because the sky is blue, grass is green, and Atsumu has terrible taste in people. All of which are just straight up, indisputable facts of pure science. And Osamu was _really_ hinging onto that last one as Atsumu babbled on about that _one_ customer.

"No, you're not catchin' my drift, Samu," said Atsumu one week ago while Osamu was attempting to get around their kitchen just to make himself some damn Kraft's mac and cheese. "This guy was like... tantalizin'. He look'd th'part, and if he really was a grim reaper, I think I would've accepted death and followed him straight into the Afterlife. I mean, you saw him!"

"All I saw was that he look'd like a prude hitman. Who the fuck wears that many layers in summer if they're not hidin' somethin' under there for murder?" Osamu had responded pointedly as he stirred the macaroni in a pot of boiled water.

"Oh, I'd let him murder me any day." Atsumu smirked conspiratorially. "And then some more if he wanted."

"You filthy animal," sneered Osamu. "Sleep on the balcony tonight and for the rest of your life you filthy animal."

So naturally, Atsumu is now desperate to gain Osamu's attention in order to dignify his innate attraction towards this particular guy.

"Samu, Samu, Samu," Atsumu continues to nail a series of firm but not harsh punches to Osamu's arm.

 _"What,"_ mutters Osamu bitterly.

"Look, it's _him_."

But Osamu has already turned his attention back to the phone call.

"Samu!" Atsumu stage whispers and gives a particular rough push that drives Osamu over the edge.

Those grey-brown eyes of Osamu's pierce straight into Atsumu as he snarls, " _Cut it out or I'mma knock your teeth in_."

Atsumu freezes, not because he's afraid of his brother— _god no_ — but because immediately afterwards, the woman on the other side of the phone line begins throwing a raging fit that can be heard in a static mumble. A look of apologetic horror drips onto Osamu's face with realization as he immediately turns back to the phone by his ear in order to subdue the situation.

"I-I'm sorry, ma'am, that wasn't directed towards you—" but Osamu stops after his hurried speech, blinking. And when he takes the phone away from his ear, he pins a menacing glare on Atsumu that is enough to make flowers wither. That curse of a lady has hung up on him.

Atsumu nervously chuckles, "Oopsies."

"Yeah," Osamu narrows his eyes. " _Oopsies_ , ya little bratty _shit_ —"

"On the bright side, ya don't hafta deal with her anymore!" Atsumu exclaims in an attempt to soften the steel in Osamu's stare. Steel that is more than ready to shred Atsumu into pieces, both inside and out.

"You already know that customer's gonna write a rather sour review on Yelp now," says Osamu with a slow, frustrated sigh. "And mom's gonna get pissy about it to us. And it'll be because of _you_ and _your_ gay panic."

Atsumu sputters, his hands suddenly having no idea what to do with themselves before settling on gesturing at Osamu wildly. "Okay, but that was within _good reason_."

"Good reason," parrots Osamu, utterly unconvinced. "You just made me accidentally say _'I'll knock your teeth in'_ to a sweet lady on the phone."

" _Sweet—??_ " Atsumu splutters. "Yikes, Samu, ya got your tastebuds all backwards."

"The only thing that's backwards is your disgusting personality."

" _Low blow_." Atsumu feigns an offended gasp that earns him a deep eye roll. "But that lady had everythin' about the concept of bookstores backwards. Gave me a headache."

"If ya just offered her help, maybe ya could've saved yourself from that headache to your pea-brain."

"Ok, _first_ , I did offer her help—"

"How?" Osamu leans a hand on the counter with brows raised. "Cause last I checked, your idea of _help_ is also backwards ya dickrod."

An agape mouth is all Atsumu is left with, but no words pass through. And that serves enough as an answer to Osamu.

"Tsumu, I'mma fuckin' pummel you and stuff your corpse into these shop walls for bein' so incompetent."

" _Overkill!_ All ya did was accidentally threaten a lady into gettin' dentures!"

A groveling groan gripes out of Osamu's throat and into his hands with both sheer embarrassment and murderous frustration. Atsumu thinks about sinking the claws of shame deeper into his brother, but he'll give himself some nice guy points for ultimately deciding not to.

 _Ahem_. A throat is cleared from across the counter, and the twins avert their gazes towards the source.

Then the urge to hurdle out of his skin overtakes Atsumu when he lays eyes on the person waiting for checkout.

"I didn't know murder is entailed to this bookstore," says the dark-haired, steely-eyed customer that has been the object of Atsumu's gay desires for the past week. His curls are the same: wavy and of a midnight color. That flawless skin of his is still pale, albeit the healthier glow of it since the last time he was in the shop. Those dark onyx eyes are more awake too, no longer exhausted and much more set on appearing flat and dry.

Altogether, it's the same customer just less zombified than the last time he was seen.

"Murder is a secret menu item," says Atsumu.

"This is a bookstore, not a restaurant," drones Osamu. "Dumbass."

"Murder is a secret shelf item," rectifies Atsumu and realizes that shit doesn't make sense either— _fuck_. He walks over to the cash register and motions at the customer. " _Ahem_... I'll take your purchase here."

Atsumu ignores the way Osamu snorts to himself from the side and realizes he could _really_ use that secret shelf item right now.

The customer places a single item at the checkout. Taking it in his hand to scan, Atsumu pointedly examines the cover that is most certainly not what he was expecting to see.

 _Neon Genesis Evangelion, Volume Three_ is what the title reads with a colored cover of Ayanami Rei plastered on it in laminate. Atsumu has to blink at it a few times just to stare at it because 1) best girl, Rei, is beautiful and fuck Asuka, and 2) this is a major shift from _Orange Vol. 6_ to _Evangelion Vol. 3_ of all mangas. Evangelion and Orange are on complete opposite scales of the manga/anime tier list in terms of understandable plot and that is just otaku gospel.

"Staring is nice, but hurrying up would be preferred." The customer grumbles curtly with a sour tilt of his brow.

Atsumu can see the peeved disposition in the guy's dark eyes, and _oh_ he's an asshole.

"I'm just tryna comprehend why you're buyin' Eva when ya just bought Orange last week," says Atsumu as he waves the manga over at the guy, who blinks with an addled frown.

"Tsumu, if you're not gonna scan that, I will bodily remove you from the cash register," says Osamu as he watches the other two engage in what appears to be a confused staring contest.

"Just take my money and I'll happily leave," says the customer in a monotonous promise before reaching in his pocket for presumably his wallet.

"Okay, okay," says Atsumu with a thoughtful fidget. He still doesn't scan the item. And the guy looks like he's about ready to lock Atsumu in a phone booth for it. "Best girl. Rei or Asuka? Right answers only."

Silence. The wallet in the guy's hands is being picked at, and he even shoots an inquisitive look at Osamu. But no such rescue is offered as he is seen shaking his head in his hand like he's half considering rewriting his birth certificate. Then he reverts his gaze back at a patiently waiting Atsumu, who is still _not scanning the damn item—_

"I don't know," replies the guy, with a distinct twinge of impatience. He opens up his wallet to take out a 1000 yen bill.

"Choose one," urges Atsumu.

"I said I don't know."

"Just choose, the answer should be easy—"

" _Fine_ ," the customer bitterly grits out, the tense knit of his brows showcasing peak annoyance. "Uh, the second one."

Asuka. Atsumu looks like he's been shot in the back as he gasps with a full ride of offense. One might think someone's just told him that he has a terminal illness, or that Pluto isn't a planet anymore, or that Osamu's the better twin— but no. And Osamu looks about ready to clock his fist in Atsumu's face for it as the customer remains passive in his answer.

" _Blasphemy_ ," breathes Atsumu. _Beep_ he scans the item despite not feeling like the guy deserves it anymore.

"I haven't even read the series," mumbles the guy, his dark curls falling over one side of his face before moving them away from his eyes.

"Oh." Atsumu bags the item, catching a glimpse of the right best girl, Rei, and the words Volume Three on the cover. "Then why volume three?"

The guy doesn't answer— just glowers. Taking that as an incentive to shut up for a maximum of five seconds, Atsumu hands the customer his change and watches the latter slot the bills back into his wallet. That's when Atsumu catches another glimpse of something— a student ID card inside the wallet. The name is too small to be decipherable, but the colors and logo are unmistakable.

The student ID is without a hitch of doubt an ID from the University of Tokyo with its pale blue and yellow scheme. Atsumu's previous inquiry evaporates into mist as his brain now hinges on a new concept.

" _Dude_ , you go to UTokyo?" Atsumu marvels, now slightly leaning over the counter to catch a longer look at the ID card.

But the guy tucks his wallet away, eyes narrowed and attempting to ward off Atsumu's presence with a single look. "No," he denies.

"Ya can't fool me. I know what I saw," grins Atsumu, smug and pompous and all the gross charismatic parts of his personality in that small smile. "Especially when I'm aimin' to go t'their law school."

"Guess I'll have to drop out then."

"Don't worry, he's not gonna get in anyway," assures Osamu, having resumed eating his half-eaten granola bar as Atsumu gawks.

The customer's eyes trickle over to the number of LSAT workbooks and papers littered down one side of the counter, all of which are pristinely marked up with notes and highlights.

"Don't let that fool ya. He has the memory of a goldfish with dementia," says Osamu, watching the way an actual amused smirk flickers on the guy's face before it goes flat again.

A swift movement of Atsumu's arm, and he grabs a pink highlighter from among his study notes and prods it in Osamu's face with a bitter threat.

"Ya ever wonder what pink tastes like??" Atsumu uncaps the highlighter and goes to shove it in his brother's swiftly dodging face. "Cause I could really know from your stupid, flappy mouth right about now."

"Then you can do yourself a favor and try it," the customer cuts in, "I heard it tastes like marshmallows," with the most serious delivery to date. He doesn't even look or sound like he's attempting at comedy.

Therefore Atsumu pauses, studying the fixed flatness of the guy's stare and expression in an attempt to comprehend the puzzle of it. Except he gets distracted by how perfect that one curl of hair beside the guy's ear is, and how much of a dark contrast those two moles are in comparison to his pale complexion, and how his unfairly angular jawline could probably cut straight through diamond. And most especially, how his better-than-Morgan-Freeman voice could win a Grammy on its own.

Suddenly, Atsumu doesn't know what else to say but, "Oh, really?"

"No." The guy finally just takes the plastic bag from the counter with a low scowl, "You really are just like a goldfish." Then he exits the shop without another simmering word.

A pause lingers on the twins, with Atsumu surprised at how Osamu isn't taking this sweet opening of time to laugh at his brother's expense. There are customers that go in and out of the shop door after that, all unnerved at how the twins continue to stare at the door where the guy just walked out.

"My guesses all point towards that guy being Mr. Grim Reaper-slash-hitman from last week," says Osamu, looking at Atsumu who still has his gaze fixed on the shop door like an idiot in awe.

"Samu, search up what pink tastes like."

"What."

"Just do it."

Grumbling discontentedly, Osamu whips out his phone and punches the words, ' _what does pink taste like_ ' into the Google search engine. The government is gonna have a kick out of the fact that so many people are searching for the same dumb answer.

Osamu begins reading off the first result, "'Pink tastes like marshmell—'" and stops mid-sentence at the words on the screen, his eyes squinting at them too while Atsumu looks like his eyes are gonna pop out of his head. "It's an article on Quora, that shit ain't credible ya know."

"Knowledge is knowledge, Samu," says Atsumu with too much genuineness to be coming from someone who aspires to be a lawyer in the future. You know, someone who has to _rely_ on credible knowledge. "And now I think I'm more in love than I thought."

The sky is blue, grass is green, and Atsumu has _terrible_ taste in people. Those are all facts and still stand as such— especially right now.

"Someday," says Osamu gravelly, woefully, as if he really means it. Maybe he does by the sounds of it. "Someday, I'mma have you written off the family registry."

—

That same customer ends up frequenting the bookstore under a rather unpredictable schedule.

Sometimes he comes back two days later, and he does so with a copy of _Your Lie in April Vol. 4_ presented on the counter in front of Atsumu. And the most dismayed response Atsumu gives is him waving the manga in the guy's face as if he's exhibiting a failed test to a passive child.

" _Wh_ \- you were _just_ reading Eva last week!" Chides Atsumu with an insistent finger tapping at the cover.

A dark leer is all the guy returns, and Atsumu commits it to memory like a mental tattoo. "You're acting like there is a certain order you should read things."

"Yeah, n' that typically tends to be by series n' volume!"

Or sometimes he comes back a whole week later.

And when he does, there are three purchases packed neatly together on the countertop, awaiting Atsumu's judgment as if it's a risky dessert on the final round of _Chopped_. Atsumu even inspects it as such from side to side as the customer bores a bleary stare at the swaying blonde.

"Clannad volume five, seven, and eight..." Atsumu reads aloud with an askance click of his tongue before scanning the three items. "At least the series is consistent this time."

"You know, I don't remember asking for your pointless thoughts," scoffs the customer while punching in the PIN of his debit card. He's dressed in a white shirt and a baggy denim jacket that day: an outfit that looks impeccably attractive on him. Goes to say that that lets Atsumu's get his day's fill of the Hot Customer™️ with much enthusiasm.

"It's a free donation," says Atsumu in a cloyingly pleasant tone. It just makes the guy's glare deepen. "Aren't I so nice?"

"Disgusting. The word you're looking for is 'disgusting'."

As much as Atsumu wouldn't trade the sour banter he exchanges with the customer every other day for anything else, he _does_ make some attempts to become more personally acquainted with him.

"What's your name?" Atsumu asks during their sixth, then seventh, then eighth meeting.

But he always gets—

"No."

—before the guy walks off with his purchase of _Pokémon Adventures Vol. 12, 15_ , and _16._

Too bad Atsumu is both as stubborn _and_ persistent as wet laundry. And too bad that customer keeps coming back despite showing his clear disdain for Atsumu. It's something that even Atsumu, someone who can have the brainpower of a potato on wires most of the time, doesn't quite find to be sensical himself, and the same goes for Osamu.

"I'm surprised th'guy has the endurance to keep comin' back after having t'deal with a wreck like you," says Osamu one particularly hot summer evening. A pouch of watermelon-flavored ice cream is at his lips as he slurps on it languidly.

" _I know!_ " Atsumu exclaims in agreement (ignoring the 'wreck' part) and chews on the straw of his slushee drink as if it'll help him wrap his head around the fact. "Maybe there's somethin' 'bout me that just draws him in," and he makes a swooning sigh at this, much more at himself than at the addressed customer.

"I wonder how much your back hurts from bendin' over to kiss your own ass," says Osamu, looking at his Narcissus reincarnate of a brother with every irked nerve popping out his gaze. "The guy won't even give you his name. What about that says he's drawn into you?"

As much as plain logic credits to Osamu's statement, it only merits Atsumu with an obnoxious idea. A potato on wires moment.

And the next day when the same dark-haired, inanely attractive, and still nameless customer walks in, Atsumu greets him with: "Welcome back, Shinigami-kun!"

Atsumu swears he sees his life flash before his eyes when 'Shinigami-kun' impales the daggers of an intense glower in his direction. But if the guy won't give Atsumu his name, he might as well generously gift him one for the time being. Because he's generous like that.

"Don't call me that," says the customer in a tone as dark as his narrowed stare.

"Not unless you give me your name~!" Atsumu chirps in sing-song as he— _beep_ — scans the guy's purchase of _K-On! Vol. 5_. "Then maybe I'll stop."

The guy seems to consider it for a stuttering moment, the look teasing Atsumu with the possibility that he will concede. But the candle of that consideration is immediately extinguished by a peeved huff as the guy instead snatches his purchase out the door without another word.

This goes on for days.

"Shinigami-kun!"

"Ew."

Then weeks.

"Sword Art Online? I'm starting to not like you just for this."

"Good, then our feelings will become mutual."

"Oh, but I know you love me."

"I'd rather choke on a knife."

And the passing of weeks tumbles into the changing of seasons. The curling heat of summer begins unfurling into autumn chills, and as sunlight begins to wane, so does Atsumu's presence at the bookstore. Studying at the public library begins to become Atsumu's new normal. But before he completely stops stepping foot in the shop, he's glued to the counter where his notes are while Osamu mans the register.

Everything in front of Atsumu is just a disarray of highlighted papers, annotated textbooks, and crumpled workbooks that all mirror the scrambled state of Atsumu's potato-of-a-brain. Shinigami-kun has made an appearance at the shop during a few of these meltdown moments of Atsumu, seemingly never batting an eye at the rumpled locks of Atsumu's hair as if he has never heard of a brush, his deep eye bags that could make one think that he's sleeping on rocks, and his rather uncharacteristic silence while burning holes into his textbooks with his own two eyes.

"Why are you studying here?" Shinigami-kun finally asks. And it's the first ever time of him being the first to speak to Atsumu. This should go into history books.

Mortal surprise captures onto Atsumu's face at this exact moment, and he merely chuckles with every painful nerve wracking his body. "I still have to work."

"You're not really working, you're just studying— barely," says Shinigami-kun, the tone to which he uses being more suited for a child rather than Atsumu. But really, where's the difference? "Just go to a library."

"Aw, nice to know ya care for me, Shinigami-kun," coos Atsumu, indulging in the irked look that crosses onto the other's face. Then, "Ow—!" Something lands smack on his face before falling atop his notes.

"Eat something, you look like you've been rolling in shit," and the voice is already gone, along with the person it came from before Atsumu could tear his eyes away from the packaged bag of— something— in his hand to cast an incredulous look at Shinigami-kun.

"Uh— thanks—" calls Atsumu, out to the slowly closing shop door. He looks back down at the clear packaged bag— of umeboshi, as he notices now— in his hand and allows the pleasant smile on his lips to hook up his cheeks.

"Ugh, I'mma hurl if ya keep lookin' at it like that," remarks Osamu from the cash register. 

And Atsumu just flips him the bird as he takes to tearing open the package.

Every other day that follows afterwards is rewarded with Shinigami-kun dropping both a bag of umeboshi and a caustic jeer in Atsumu's face.

"My care package has arrived!" Atsumu calls out with cloying glee the moment Shinigami-kun walks into the bookstore. Just like every time.

And every time, Atsumu makes it very known that Shinigami-kun is starting to take a liking into him—

"Yuck, you're making me consider lacing these with cyanide."

—despite the guy's continued denial.

Shinigami-kun then grumbles and tosses the umeboshi over the counter, leaving with a cold shoulder still laden on him.

But eventually, Shinigami-kun's passive nagging finally pushes Atsumu to migrate to the library in order to study, and that's when he stops showing up to work despite his great dismay.

And now, as the day to take his LSAT finally comes to bite his ass, the first thing Atsumu looks forward to the moment he finishes that last question on the exam is going back to work. No force on Earth will stop Atsumu from showing up to work at his family's bookstore, but when he does, he does so on a rather terrible note.

Because he gets his LSAT scores back and immediately wants to crawl into the nearest electrical outlet in shame.

—

Atsumu's earliest memory has always included books. A fortress of books, a _pile_ of books, a collage of words and pictures stretching across his very own two eyes since the moment he realized that words can convey thought. He and Osamu always hung around the bookstore back when their mother was the main clerk of the shop, and the two of them turned into three the moment their younger sister was old enough to totter after them on her own two feet.

The Fox Den Bookstore has always been _that bookstore_ down the street to the locals. The type of bookstore with a name that isn't plastered across Japan's top list of bookstores, yet it owns a renown title on the street it's located like a delicate crown, for its familial sense being the heart of its business.

Owning a bookstore has supplied a bottomless pit of books for the Miya mother to read to her kids in hopes to sow the fond seeds of reading in them just as she had been back in the root of her youth. It proved to be the most effective on Osamu, as he can be caught reading a novel or two every now and then because reading, to him, is like another limb. And he does whatever he can to utilize its dangling existence. He wouldn't be labeled a 'bookworm' by anyone, but a casual reader. This suffices to their mother because the other two didn't quite... turn out.

Because despite being surrounded by books all his life, Atsumu absolutely _loathes_ reading as if he has a raging vendetta against it. His sister shares the same dislike as he does, but that trait was also countered by her innate skill at absorbing words on a page like a hungry encyclopedia— hence, her outstanding grades.

So where does that leave Atsumu? That leaves him as someone who despises reading if it doesn't include a picture at least once every two pages, with _painfully average_ academics and poor study skills that not even neat, cookie-cutter notes can salvage.

So when Atsumu gets his LSAT score of 150 out of 180 back to him, he is at a very _miserable_ but _inevitable_ loss. And he hasn't felt this caught off guard since he was six-years-old and found out that you _don't_ start counting at the number zero.

And that miserable loss has dragged him back to the public library by the throat on a Saturday afternoon. The spines of law textbooks stare back at him with leering mockery, and Atsumu takes a few that his sister picked out for him online and checks them out with his library card that is being of more use than his debit card has ever been on any spending spree.

Atsumu could be spending his Saturday afternoon doing far better things such as 1) not studying, 2) not studying, and 3) _not studying_. But despite himself and every loathing bone in Atsumu's body, he's sauntering down the hall of the library's study rooms to _study_ because there is no way in fuck he is going to submit his LSAT score of 150 to UTokyo's School of Law. He'd rather go streaking at the Tokyo shrines than do _that_.

An open door at the end of the hall signifies a vacant study room— the only one— and Atsumu unhesitatingly makes a beeline for it. He's about halfway there when a closed room he's about to pass swings open, and out steps someone that makes Atsumu skid to a stop so hard that one might think he's crashed into an invisible wall. The other person stops too, but only with a mere stumble that still gives way to utter recognition.

Dark curly hair, onyx eyes, and a pretty scowl. Surely, Atsumu is dreaming.

But surely, _he is not_.

Atsumu gasps, "You!" As if the other has done inherently something wrong to him, or his brother, or his entire family at that.

Shinigami-kun's stone-hard expression twitches with something perfectly bridged between surprise and irritation before bodily swerving himself back into the study room. Atsumu has never seen him move so goddamn _fast_.

"Hey— pause, pause—!" Atsumu reaches out and lodges his foot into the room before the glass door can be shut in his face. Chuckling, he puts a hand on the doorknob and meets close with Shinigami-kun's face, albeit there being a door between them. "Wow, ya must _really_ not like me."

"I thought I made that clear." Shinigami-kun huffs curtly, his breath fogging up the door's glass. 

"Didja?" Says Atsumu in a feigned tone of inquiry. "'Cause I didn't know dislikin' me meant you droppin' study snacks off to me at the store, givin' me sweet words of advice—"

"Did not." Shinigami-kun denies the second part with a refuting glare. His words of advice were _anything_ but sweet.

"Did too."

Shinigami-kun gives another shove at the door, but it turns up fruitless.

Barely budging, Atsumu persists with, "Annnnd, I'm no profiler, but those signs kinda point towards you likin' me _at least_ a 'lil bit," and it's as if he's already made a home out of his place at the door— foot lodged and everything. "So ya don't have to make me out t'be so creepy."

"You're literally trying to break into this room," deadpans Shinigami-kun.

"Because ya blocked it in my face! Unprovoked!"

"I don't know, but I felt pretty provoked the moment I saw your dumb face."

"Touché." Atsumu concedes.

With Shinigami-kun's face being as close as it has never been before, Atsumu can see the angry scrunch of his eyebrows and the two moles that slightly bend along with them.

"Ya can't deny that we're friends. Even if it's just a lil' bit," says Atsumu. "Ya even helped me out this past month."

"That's cause someone as causeless like you wasn't studying properly," says Shinigami-kun, and he presses his lips together as if the words taste as bitter as they sound. "And we're barely friends. All I did was charity work."

"You hurt me." Atsumu huffs petulantly before nudging the door that is now casually pressed between them. "You gon' lemme in?"

"No." Shinigami-kun gives another haphazard push at the door as an affirmation for his answer.

"Oh _c'mon_ —" Atsumu looks around them before whispering, "People are starin' ya know?"

"You seem like the last person to care about people staring."

"I'm gon' pretend that was a compliment. Now c'mon, ease up here." Atsumu gives another nudge at the door, a tap of his hand too. "That last open study room just got taken."

Not thinking that line would be enough to merit access, Atsumu is pleasantly surprised that Shinigami-kun does ease up— not without rolling his eyes around the backs of his skull first. The door closes behind Atsumu quietly, drowning away any foreign noise from outside and drilling a buzz of silence into the small, squarish room that is walled in beige and white tones. 

Shinigami-kun sits at the table that's set up in the middle of the room, and Atsumu takes the seat across from him with a precarious look lingering on the other. It's as if Shinigami-kun is dead-set on ignoring Atsumu's full existence like it's his life mission from how immediately he becomes drilled back into his notes.

"Well," says Atsumu as he unpacks the contents of his backpack— notebooks, workbooks, laptop, "Isn't this your lucky day t'be graced by the presence of yours truly?"

"I don't know what gods I pissed off in order for you to stumble upon me," grits Shinigami-kun straight through his teeth. His notes and books are exceptionally organized despite there being _so many_ like holy _shit_ , Atsumu thinks he's gonna have a seizure just looking at the sheer number of books and colorful sticky notes already on the table. But if Atsumu has any running guesses, it's that Shinigami-kun is fucking _smart_ and _organized_.

"I'm no zealot, but I think th'gods know exactly what they're doin'."

Now having emptied all the contents of his backpack, the quiet ticking sound of Atsumu clicking his mechanical pencil prompts Shinigami-kun to shoot him a look. But Atsumu only holds a guileless stare— _click, click, click!_

Then those gorgeously dark onyx eyes slip down to observe Atsumu's study books, and the latter can already feels the cogs turning in the other's head despite his flat stare.

"I failed it," says Atsumu, simply.

A mumbling snicker makes the ends of Shinigami-kun's lips perk up, the sound quiet and easily swept away by Atsumu's offended splutter.

"Hey— hey! Not that you need to know—"

"You're right, I don't," rejects Shinigami-kun, the subtly smug look on his face patronizing Atsumu in some ways that Atsumu doesn't even mind.

"Except ya totally do," grins Atsumu. "I nailed the essay."

"Congrats. You want a cookie?"

"I'd prefer my admission to UTokyo."

Shinigami-kun snorts, "You're talking to the wrong person," and turns back to his notes.

"Also, I didn't technically fail, there is no such thing as failing on that test but it's just...." Atsumu peters off, uncertain. "It's not— it's just—"

"It's inadequate," finishes Shinigami-kun, and Atsumu resists the urge to wince despite him knowing that it's _very true_.

But he does wince, "Ouch," despite himself.

"It's true," notes Shinigami-kun, his ballpoint pen twirling expertly around his fingers as if it has a mind of its own. "UTokyo's not gonna accept an inadequate score like yours."

"Hey, my score isn't inadequate," frowns Atsumu, half-mesmerized by the other's casual pen tricks. "It's just brutally average."

"I hear no difference."

"You just insulted the entire population of average people."

"Then you must feel insulted," says Shinigami-kun through a slight hiss of teeth.

"Yikes! No chill!" Then Atsumu abruptly leans in to inspect the twirling blur of black spinning around Shinigami-kun's lax fingers. "Ok, what the hell— if a stripper could twirl around a pole as well as that pen can around your fingers, they'd have a full cash-in career."

That makes the pen twirling stop between Shinigami-kun's index and middle finger, his eyes narrowing with disapproval at Atsumu as if he's just admitted to fucking a plant.

"What the hell do you want, Miya."

Gasping, Atsumu's eyes brighten while the other's dims. "You know my name!!"

"Of course I do," says Shinigami-kun, dryly. "I'm not blind to that plaque in front of the shop talking about the start of its business."

"Oh c'mon," sighs Atsumu as he wilts, hand resting on his textbook but still not opening it. "Gimme some validation, Shinigami-kun."

"I think you get enough from yourself," grumbles Shinigami-kun, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm. "Now, what do you want? You haven't opened your stupid textbook, and I'm sure there's an equally stupid reason why you haven't."

Atsumu thumbs at the cover, feeling the flit of paper against his skin. "Well..." He bites at the inside of his cheek, mouth twisting, "I need at least a score of 173 in order for me to be on UTokyo territory—"

"Can't help you," and the raven goes immediately back to his notes, already uninterested in where the idea's heading.

"Yes, you can!" Atsumu insists, leaning forward with his forearms on the table.

"How." Shinigami-kun doesn't look away from the passage he's reading, pen twirling again. "We're in completely different departments of study."

A child-like sulkiness takes onto Atsumu's features when he looks petulantly at that crisp profile of Shinigami-kun's.

"Well, you can start by bein' nice," huffs Atsumu.

"No can do," Shinigami-kun uncaps a highlighter, his gaze still not fixed on Atsumu.

"Okay, okay," says Atsumu. "Just— teach me how t'study. Like, studying tips in general, ya know?"

The highlighter is then capped, the noise popping in the abnormally silent room and acting as a suspenseful quiet when Shinigami-kun trains a flatly curious look on Atsumu. It's akin to a pendulous guillotine, and Atsumu gulps.

"Where does your brother go?"

Atsumu blinks, "Waseda's School of Business."

"Then ask him," he doesn't look away, "He clearly got into a good school."

Atsumu buries his face in his hands, the thought of Osamu teaching him how to study shooting nothing but cold dread through his veins. He groans, "Samu is just gonna convert my textbooks into a grueling game of Kahoot and beat me with a ruler for every question I get wrong."

That snicker again, deep and quiet but it's instead swept away by Shinigami-kun's own voice. "What are you talking about, that sounds completely effective."

"I'm not playin' around!"

"Who says _I_ am?"

"That stupid smirk on your face does!" Atsumu points accusingly at that brief flash of white in Shinigami-kun's quick, small grin. "So please, _please_ —" he clasps his hands together in a plea, "—please, teach me how to study."

"Wow," says Shinigami-kun, genuinely incredulous, "You're really— _really_ pathetic."

Atsumu makes a strangled noise at that remark but holds his tongue as he awaits an answer. Maybe there's pity mixed in with that deep sigh of Shinigami-kun's, but he sounds pretty close to conceding— Atsumu hopes this time he does.

"What's in it for me, then?"

Despite withholding his victorious smile, Atsumu still can't resist popping his head up like an overjoyed puppy. "Really?"

"I didn't say yes, I asked what's in it for me."

Atsumu considers this, then offers, "A 25% discount at the store."

Tilting his head, Shinigami-kun gives an utterly unconvinced look.

"30%?" Atsumu rectifies.

"Mm." That same look doesn't waver.

"35%?" Atsumu tries again, "40%? 45%– oh c'mon, that store isn't completely mine, ya know. It's still technically my mom's!"

The displeased hum Shinigami-kun makes nearly scares Atsumu into thinking that he's just lost his sterling chance at having a decent future. But he's proven wrong in his favor when he sees the raven subtly nod instead.

"40% then," finally, Shinigami-kun acquiesces with a twisted face that looks like he's ready to catapult off a cliff for making such a decision. "Now shut your mouth and start studying. I have a long way to go too."

"Oh my god— _oh_ , you're a fuckin' savior—" Atsumu begins blabbering as if he's praying thanks to a frontier of gods, even piping up in his seat in a loud enough clamor to make the other grimace. "You can buy all the manga you fuckin' want n' I promise I'll get ya all the discounts ya need, Shinigami-kun—"

"Just—" the raven holds out a hand for a pause, eyes closing like he's on the verge of _losing his shit_ , "—it's Sakusa. God, just drop that _awful_ fuckin' name."

Atsumu settles back in his seat, a content smile slipping smoothly on his lips. "Will do, alright— I can do that." He snickers. "Sakusa— is that all? Sakusa...?"

Sakusa's venomous scowl that's laden with a warning prompts Atsumu to hastily flip open his textbook, mumbling, "Well alright, doesn't _this_ textbook look rather appetizing—" before he can live to see the day when Sakusa truly does snap into the killer that he so inherently looks like.

Rubbing his temple with two fingers, Sakusa exhales, "It's Kiyoomi. Sakusa. Kiyoomi. There. Happy?" And it's like his headache burrows deeper into his skull just at those words, his fingers circling more intensely at the side of his head.

"Ecstatic, Sakusa-kun. So ecstatic that I can hear the heavens singing," there's that cloyingly smug grin on Atsumu's face again when he jests; he knows because he can feel it there.

And he also knows by the roll of eyes that Sakusa so graciously gives him before nailing them back down to his notes, his pen twirling in his hand once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love bullying Atsumu through the words of other characters.  
> Also you have no idea how many times my iPad tried to autocorrect “-kun” into some other bullshit. I was about to eject myself into the galaxy and start my own Big Bang for the making of another universe where “-kun” isn’t autocorrected all the time.
> 
> Maybe this is an exaggeration, but truly, don’t doubt me.


End file.
